


Like this

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Painplay, Porn with Feelings, Shaving, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-06-13 05:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19594603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Anton helps Viktor with shaving.





	Like this

Viktor needs order. His life doesn’t provide him with much order, his job breaks his routine every day. So every little piece counts. Like being clean-shaven.

But sometimes, even those small things are taken away — by circumstance, like an injury. Viktor feels absurdly miserable about his shabby looks, but he’s not going to ask... But Anton reads it, his need, because he always does. “Your hands are unsteady, you might slit your throat.” He says it in a light, joking tone — but watching Viktor carefully.

The reasoning is enough and Viktor agrees.

But he isn’t prepared for the whole experience at all. For Anton sitting him down on a low stool, preparing a hot towel (not too hot, and it feels so good and soothing on Viktor’s face). For Anton taking a soap bowl (beautiful glass), and lathering the soap with a brush. For Anton holding up his chin so carefully, tilting his face as he needs (the bristles of the brush so soft). For Anton stropping a straight razor (the handle is either carved or inlaid, Viktor can’t get a proper look).

And then Anton glides the blade expertly, pulling the skin taut, wiping the blade. Without rush, like a meditative ritual.

And his cheeks and chin and jaw are fine, Viktor can control himself — but then the blade touches his throat.

He could lean just that bit forward and move slightly, it takes so little for the sharp blade to draw blood...

They hold each other’s gaze for long moments, and Viktor tries to remember how to breathe.

He wants Anton so badly, in a way that is not only sexual, but... powerful, choking him and liberating him at the same time.

It’s the thrill of danger, but even more it’s... He can’t say. He imagines vividly leaning to the blade, under Anton’s intense, calculating gaze, staining the razor, Anton’s hands with his blood. There would be so much of it, and it would look good on Anton.

He has to close his eyes to compose himself, and in a way it’s worse, because he’s even more aware of the blade and of Anton’s touch. His broad hands with sensitive fingers of a lockpicker, with oft-reddened knuckles and the massive ring, and nails of a handsome shape, rounded and neat...

The foam is wiped off his face (the soap smells faintly of lavender and lemons), and then Viktor sucks in a breath when Anton’s fingers start applying aftershave balm to his skin, both hands moving in parallel. Soothing. It’s Anton’s scent, wood and spices and something thin and high, something yellow-green, sharp.

He’s going to wear it for a while.

He dislikes changing scents, but this... This one is familiar and comforting, better than his own cheap aftershave. Soothing on his skin.

“Vitya. May I kiss you?”

It is startling that Anton sounds just as breathless as Viktor feels. That he’s affected, too.

“Yes.”

The kiss is a little uncoordinated, and very hungry but unhurried, Anton’s mouth hot and demanding, and Viktor doesn’t open his eyes, focusing on the sensation, tilting his face up, Anton’s hand on his newly-shaven cheek, his thumb stroking Viktor’s cheekbone. He feels... overwhelmed, but in a good way. Getting lost in it, and willingly. Anton’s tongue sliding against his, small bites to his bottom lip followed by light sucking... He’s hot and melting.

“More?”

“Yes. Yes.” He doesn’t recognize himself in the desperate whisper.

Anton pulls away, and Viktor can’t stop a dismayed noise. He opens his eyes to see what he’s done wrong — but Anton is sinking to his knees, mouth wet, lips bright, his eyes dark.

Anton’s hand slides down from his cheek to his throat, into the collar of his shirt, and parts it easily (Viktor’s hands do shake and his right one still aches, so he wears his formal white shirts these days because they have fake buttons and close on magnetic stripes).

Anton’s hand is very firm on his skin, and broad, and it takes everything Viktor has to not arch into it too wantonly. Anton’s gaze slides after the movement, as though Viktor is something beautiful, as though he’s good enough to eat and to watch and to touch.

Anton’s hand stops on the waistband of his pants, and Anton lifts his gaze again. And then Anton’s other hand (he hasn’t kept track of it, what a fool...) holds up the razor.

Viktor feels like he’s going to die from too much heat.

“Yes,” he whispers, and doesn’t care anymore how it sounds. “Yes.”

Anton brings the blade to his sternum, presses it just under the clavicles.

And drags it down. Slowly.

It stings, and it feels cold in a beautiful contrast to everything else, and Viktor can almost, almost feel how his skin parts, how his flesh would part for Anton, he images closing his fingers on Anton’s wrist and guiding his hand lower, down his stomach, lower, lower, and like a paintbrush it would leave a crimson line in its wake, and he would...

“Breathe.”

_“Tosha_.”

But the blade stops just before it would have pressed into the softness of him, and he almost asks to continue — but then Anton’s hot tongue is gliding _up_ , chasing away the cold and bringing the sting to a multicolored sharpness.

He can’t hold back a sob, feeling pinned though nobody is holding him — and then Anton’s hot mouth is on his again, and he licks into it, searching for the taste, the proof of what’s happening, and groans when he feels it, the sweet metallic tang.

Then Anton is kissing, nuzzling, nipping at his throat, and Viktor tilts his head back to give himself.

“Any requests, Vitya?”

It makes his head swim more than even the kisses. He wants... No, no, he shouldn’t.

“Take me.”

“Certain? Because if you’d like to bring this into play,” the blade dances in Anton’s hand, making a silver arc — and disappears in the handle, “I’m very much interested. You look so good like this.”

He hisses as Anton’s fingers drag down the fresh cut.

Anton’s voice drops lower, and it’s difficult to focus on the meaning and not the sound of it. With Anton’s lips brushing the skin of his neck as he speaks...

“You are so beautiful, Vitya. Pale skin and geometry of your tattoos — and a dash of color, red highlights of blood. I’d open you up and watch it flow down your body. I’d make it sting, Vitya, I’d make it hurt. I wouldn’t let you drift away...”

He’s already drifting, but Anton’s voice both carries him into the haze and doesn’t let him forget himself, who he’s with — any of this.

Any of this.

He pulls himself together, opens his eyes. Anton has that look of a hunter, like when he’s prowling the streets: pupils blown, lips parted, tasting the air, his eyes taking everything in. Dangerous, deadly.

Viktor forces himself to look away. “You don’t have to humor me.”

“I’m not. I like it, too. We simply fit perfectly,” Anton brings their hands up (have they been holding hands all this time?..) and fits his fingers between Viktor’s. “Like this.”

He smiles, holding tight. “Yes. We do.”


End file.
